


Out of Sight, Out of Mind

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: "Relax, Snow. No, I'm not going to fuck him where anybody could see. Do I look like I want to have my head cut off? Still. That's no reason the boy shouldn't fuck himself where anybody could see."Or, being an exhibitionist when you're also heir to half a continent is tricky. But with some help, Robb figures it out.





	Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Irredeemable filth. Enjoy.

Sometimes, Robb thinks, despite how tightly he clings to how propriety and how fiercely he knows he must guard his few – two, to be precise – secrets, he can be too open.

It's hard to blame him at this moment, however, caught between two sweat-soaked, writhing, half-stripped bodies, one set of lips sucking a bruise along his collarbone, the other nibbling gently along his jaw, hands grabbing at him so feverishly he can no longer tell whose is whose, he can only desperately try and reach back while simultaneously trying to free himself from his breeches, just as desperately. He's not really accomplishing much beyond squirming about on his bed, leaving his plush furs gross and sticky, and he knows they shouldn't even be in his room but he also knows none of them are making it anywhere else. Especially not him. Robb is a mess right now, he knows that too.

"You were so good today," Jon is behind him, whispering in his ear, words soft even as Robb's skin aches with the mark he left behind. "Up in our lord father's chair, dealing with the commonfolk so honourably, so sensibly. The perfect little lord."

Kneeling in front of him, his hands gently but his words rougher, Theon smirks. "You know what he was thinking about when you were up there?" he asks, and Robb bites his lip not to whimper. "Bending you over that fucking chair, shoving his cock into you with all those peasants watching, using you good and hard until you screamed and all those men started wanking their pathetic lowborn pricks at what a little whore you are."

Robb moans aloud, throwing his head back against Jon, who – in a sign of progress – doesn't try and deny it. "Gods, Theon," he whispers, and Theon just laughs.

"Oh, you'd love that wouldn't you? Shameless little slut. Desperate for everyone to see you split on the end of our cocks, nothing more than a set of holes to use."

Robb _would_ love that, and they both know it. He knows it's absurd, but it also seems to be the gods' pettiest punishment for his sins: to make the one thing that drives him maddest with lust the one thing he can never do. He longs to be seen as nothing but their whore, but if anyone ever did see, it would ruin all three of them. It might kill at least one of them.

Theon laughs again, and Robb jumps and gasps as Theon pushes a greedy hand down the front of his breeches and takes ahold of his cock, finding him rock-hard and leaking. "Really, Stark, we're going to have to do something about these fantasies of yours," he says, and Robb thinks _but what is there to do?_ "Hmm. Maybe we could put a bag over your head, with a hole cut out for your mouth of course, and take you in the middle of the stables. We'd tell all the stablehands you're just a two-copper rentboy we ordered for some fun, but when you arrived you were so ugly we had to cover up your face before we could make use of you. Of course, some of those stablehands might have a couple of coppers on hand themselves, so who knows what would happen next..."

Robb whines pitifully as he bucks into Theon's grasp, rubbing himself back against Jon's hard prick. Theon says these things in the heat of the moment, and Robb is never sure how seriously he should take them but he knows, if Jon and Theon really did want him to debase himself so, he would without a second thought. For he is addicted, intoxicated, ready to allow them anything – ready to beg them to let him allow them anything.

"Robb," Jon says, and Robb wonders if he's trying to drag them all back to reality, as he does sometimes when Theon's filthy mind and mouth start to run away with him and threaten to do the same with Robb. "Robb, your curtains are open."

He turns his head and sees they are. The three of them were all in such a frenzy when they made it back to a bedchamber, none of them noticed. "It doesn't matter," Robb says, just a little bit reckless. "You can't see the bed from outside. And the glass is thick enough to smother the noise."

Jon seems less than convinced, but Theon is smirking again. "That so? I thought you might have forgotten on purpose, give yourself an excuse to be watched." Robb bites his lip and is about to tell Theon off, to tell him to stop teasing, but then Theon suddenly goes still and looks up, like he has an idea. "I have an idea," he announces, and he pushes Robb away with a grin, making him thud against Jon's chest and earning a small 'oof' in his ear. Theon pushes himself up on his knees, his prick threatening to tear right through his breeches, still. "You. Up. Over by the window."

Robb whines, not wanting to leave behind the warmth of Jon's body (or the heat of his cock). But Theon raises his eyebrow and Robb reluctantly obeys, as for all Theon's bravado he does usually make it worth his while when Robb does as he's told. Hesitantly, he reaches for his tunic again, but Theon shakes his head.

"No. No shirt. And take your breeches off while you're at it."

Robb's heart thumps in his chest. _He can't really mean me to–?_ But his cock is harder than ever, and sure enough he's standing up, pushing his breeches down his thighs with shaking hands as he slowly makes his way across the room.

"Theon," Jon hisses behind him, "you're not going to – if someone sees us–"

"Relax, Snow. No, I'm not going to fuck him where anybody could see. Do I look like I want to have my head cut off?" Robb smothers a groan of disappointment as his breeches fall around his ankles and he steps out of them. "Still. That's no reason the boy shouldn't fuck _himself_ where anybody could see."

_Oh._ Robb steps left, into the sunlight streaming through the glass, although he's not really close enough to be seen in detail. Hesitantly, he looks back over his shoulder at them - Jon almost holding his breath, torn between anxiety and arousal, and Theon as ever grinning smugly at the things he can make Robb do.

"Catch," says Theon, and Robb barely registers it before his hand goes out on instinct to grasp a small glass jar. Oil. "You might need that," says Theon. "Now turn back around, you don't want to give away that there's someone else here."

Robb lets out a shaky breath as he does as bid, walking forward to place the oil on the windowsill, wincing as he stares into the light. His window directly faces the mid-afternoon sun, meaning he really can't _see,_ he really doesn't know if anyone is watching him or not. His prick jerks violently at the thought. "That's it, Robb. Lean against the glass, let them get a really good look."

Robb does so, showing off his naked body and obscenely hard prick for all to see. Jon speaks again: "Theon, are you sure this is–?"

"Oh _shut up,_ Snow."

A pause, and then Theon suddenly gasps, and follows it with a low moan. "Fuck, Snow," he mutters, and Robb whimpers.

"What are you two–?"

"Hush, Robb," says Jon. "We're not here, remember?"

Theon laughs breathlessly. "Now you're getting it Snow," he says, and then groans again. "He's just a filthy pervert wanking himself off for anyone to see. Well go on then, Stark. Wank yourself off."

Robb moans as he finally wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself briskly, not sure if he wants to get this over as soon as possible for fear someone really will see him, or if this has him too wound up to even think of holding back. Why must the things he wants the most frighten him? At least Father is gone, off attending to some matter up at Last Hearth, which is why Robb was attending to their smallfolk, but anyone else could come walking by, his mother or his sisters or his brothers – his little brothers, his trueborn brothers, the ones he's not sleeping with – and then he moans again, biting his lip as a drop of seed shoots from his cock and onto his hand, already threatening to spill.

“So fucking eager,” whispers Theon, and Robb hears simultaneous sucking sounds as if Jon is doing _something_ , and that doesn't help him calm down. But he doesn't turn around. _You can't give anything away._ “You're loving this, aren't you, knowing anyone could see you. You're so pretty little lordling, I'm sure they can't help but watch. I'm sure all the wenches in the castle are oh-so-sad you won't be spending yourself inside them.”

_Well isn't that for the best?_ If there is one thing that can be said for their disgrace, at least none of them can possibly get a bastard on each other. Robb has his eyes closed against the sun now, which also spares him the dread and desire of knowing for sure whether he's actually been seen. He can imagine whatever he likes. _Yes, they're all watching me. From the scullery maids and the stablehands to the visiting knights and lords, they can all see me. They think I'm disgusting, but they can't look away. They think I'm a desperate, shameless, cock-ready slut..._

“But that's not what you really want, is it?” Theon is carrying on, his voice going a little shaky now and Jon's noises getting louder. “Not that I've known you to knock back a nice tight hole when it's offered, but... in the end, you just want to get fucked, don't you? Want to have your pretty little arse split in two?”

Robb pants for breath, striping his cock recklessly, fingers tightening against the glass of the window. “ _Yes_ ,” he groans. It's obscene, the way he begs them to bugger him, with their cocks or fingers or fists or a candlestick or a wine bottle, or all of the above, or anything at all, anything to make him feel like he's just a wet, loose, willing hole, barely a man, barely more than an object, and certainly not, of all things, a lord. “Well go on Stark, I did promise, didn't I?” Theon says. “Fuck yourself.”

He has to open his eyes then, reminding himself where he left the oil. He winces at the sun again, but he doesn't look out the window. He might panic if he does. Instead he stares down at the oil, thinking that it's easy for Theon to give him these instructions – he doesn't have to figure out the logistics of it. “Theon,” he says, “how am I meant to – how do I this without falling over?”

“Bend over, and lean your brow against the glass,” suggests Jon, sound rather out of breath. “That way, even if your hands are busy, you'll be supported when you start rocking and writhing about.”

Theon laughs. “Good idea Snow. You know how he gets. Hey, remember that time we got both our cocks and three fingers inside him, and he shook and wailed so much you thought he was having a fit?”

Robb didn't know it was possible, but he somehow blushes a deeper red than he was before. Yes, he remembers that, he doesn't know he could forget it. They just overwhelmed him, completely and utterly, so much so that when he finally heard Jon's worried voice it was like being dragged back up from deep beneath the water, and the only thing he could think was _why have you stopped?_

“Forgive me for actually worrying about his safety,” says Jon. “And I seem to remember it being four fingers.”

Theon snorts. “Could be right. Anything's possible with this one.”

Robb moans again, leaning over and resting his brow against the window like Jon suggested. He's not sure himself. He really does look like a whore in this position, bent at a straight angle, legs spread wide and slightly bowed, ready to be mounted for the tenth time today. Of course, he's never been had ten times in a day, but oh, if only. _Gods, the things I think sometimes._ Suddenly he is abashed. _Really, I'm insulting the good, honest whores of the realm. There can't be one of them who's as filthy as me._

He twists open the oil with shaking, sweaty fingers, his cock making an aching protest of the fact he has to abandon it to do so. He coats two fingers impatiently, and pushes them both into his arse all at once, gasping as he feels his hole spread around them. There's still a twinge of pain, but nowhere near once there once was – what there ought to be. _I'm so loose,_ he thinks, shame and lust swirling around one another in his breast, and in truth he can no longer really tell the two apart. _Just a loose, wet, well-used hole..._

“Fuck,” says Theon, and Jon murmurs something incomprehensible in agreement, suggesting his mouth might be occupied. Jon has such a beautiful mouth, and it's a shame Robb can't see it. “You love that so much, don't you Stark? Love being filled up.” Robb moans and nods in agreement, although Theon can't see that, but maybe the rest of Winterfell can – are they wondering what he's agreeing to? _Are they wondering if there's anything I wouldn't agree to?_ “You know, you can touch your cock if you want, I don't mind.”

Robb moans and grabs again for his cock. They have done that to him before, made him come on the end of their cocks with nothing else to help him, something Robb can never be sure if he hates or loves – but it's for the best this not take too long, so he should get himself off soon. With one hand he rubs feverishly at his dripping prick, with the other he shoves two fingers brutally in and out of his arse, and his red-hot brow against the cool glass the only thing keeping him from plummeting to the floor. And people can _see_ him.'

“Add another finger in, you know you want to.” And Robb does, so he adds a third like Theon said, groaning at the stretch – far from the most he's ever taken, but still _good_. “Such a desperate little whore, trying to fill your needy holes up with your own fingers. And everyone can see you. Do you think they're all thinking about fucking you? Giving you the good hard cock in your arse you need so badly? Surely they must be, and I bet you love that too, the thought half of Winterfell will be pulling themselves tonight at the thought of having you wrapped around their cocks. But what if one of them decides thinking's not enough, eh? What if they all do? A whole queue of men lining up outside your door, ready to have a turn, filling you up again and again and again until your poor pretty arse can't take anymore. Would you like that?”

Robb whimpers as he greedily shoves a fourth finger into his arse. “Yes, gods, yes.” He never would of course; his loyalty to his two lovers (and someday, he supposes, to his lady wife – but that's something he tries very hard not to think about) is fierce. But Jon and Theon don't seem to begrudge him his dreams. In truth, it's one of those fantasies that would probably be more painful than pleasant in reality.

“Fuck,” says Theon. “Fuck, you shameless little whore, fill yourself up for us, that's it, show us, show everyone – _fuuuuuuck_...”

Theon cuts off with a long, low groan that ends in a whimper, then panting. _Has he just come?_ The thought has Robb moaning and pushing his four fingers inside faster. After a few moments, Jon picks up where Theon left off, sounding very out of breath but perfectly composed. “Robb. Stand back up.”

Robb whimpers himself then. _But I'll have to take my fingers out._ But he doesn't want to sound that pathetic (although why this would be where his pride draws the line, he has no idea, but apparently it is), so instead he simply asks: “Why?”

“Because I want you to come on that window,” says Jon. “And then, I want you to lick it clean.”

Robb moans and pulls his fingers out, leaving a stinging, aching emptiness behind. That's not fair, they know he loves the taste of come, and they're using it against him. But he wants it too much to protest.

When he stands up though, he feels really dizzy, and he has to rest his oil-wet hand against the glass and open his eyes to get his balance back. When he does, however, he realises the sun has gone down a little now, and he can see again. And he sees a girl. And she sees him.

One of the scullery maids, he thinks she is, about his age, sent to fetch wood for the kitchen fire. She's barely close enough to see him and she's all alone, the rest of the servants are all busy preparing for dinner, no-one would believe her if she tried to tell them but she's staring like she can't look away. She sees him. She _sees him._

Robb splatters his seed all over the glass window with a cry.

The serving girl's eyes go wide, and behind him someone whispers “fuck,” but Robb isn't listening. He has instructions. He drops to his knees and, eyes never leaving her, he starts to lick up his own come. The girl covers a gasp that could be arousal, could be disgust, could be both. Robb moans as the salty taste floods his mouth. _I'm such a fucking whore,_ he thinks, delighting in his own disgrace, _and you know it. I don't even know you, but you know that I am a **whore**._

She blushes and runs off, as if afraid she'll be caught staring, and Robb hums in satisfaction as he finishes cleaning up after himself. Then, still on his knees, he turns to see Jon and Theon – who are now locked in the middle of a desperate kiss, Theon soft against Jon's thigh and Jon _not_ , and Robb would wager Jon's lips are red and swollen (more so than usual) from more than kissing. He lets out a laugh. “You're both right pricks,” he says, and they break the kiss to look at him, puzzled. “You _know_ how much I love watching you two together.”

Jon laughs, and Theon tries, but he still seems a bit spent to pull it off as usual. “Sorry Robb,” says Jon. “But you probably won't be ready to go again for awhile, so you can watch us some. Greyjoy here owes me a favour.”

That gets Theon back to his usual self. “Fuck off, Snow,” he says, grinning as he shoves Jon's shoulder. “I didn't _ask_ you to swallow my cock whole like a two-copper slut. You must just like the taste, huh?”

“Maybe, but I didn't hear you complaining either.”

Robb laughs again (and wins his imaginary wager) as he makes his way back over to the bed and lies down. “Come on Theon. I put on a show, so can you.”

He leaves the curtains open.

 


End file.
